Solidarity
by Shaposhit
Summary: AU PoLiet. Feliks is the punching bag of the entire school, especially that boy who used to be his best friend. Where is that golden smile that used to be the best part of summer? Rated primarily for language. Several chapters on the way!
1. Chapter 1: Hate the workers who stand

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**Warnings: Rated primarily for language and some "mature themes." Overuse of an F-word, though not the usual one. No lemons kthx. I know roughly shit about Polish history, so...corrections welcome!**

**A/N: First installment in a series of maybe five? AU!High school fic. Even though I usually hate them, I read a good one...also, this was the first Hetalia fic I started working on and I had trouble beling like, "Poland did this. Then Poland did that. Poland sez, "Moar poniez!"" so I wanted to use human names and personas. For some reason I still attempted to use historical references...**

**A!N: Several reportages of illegal produced fan fictions stealing onto Interweb! Do not! Thinking that belonging to official property of Hidekaz.**

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**Solidarność**

**Chapter 1: Words and Hair Clips**

_"A major theme in European history seems to be that everyone screws Poland over."_

_-TS, Ace European History Teacher_

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It was a simple thing, really. A hair clip. It had been so long ago that he'd first worn it, and yet it seemed like that day had been the beginning of the end. And today he was going to wear it again no matter what that son of a bitch Toris said.

Ha! Toris never said anything to him anymore! But he knew about the whispers that passed illicitly between buddies during class. He felt the stares in the hallway, the congealed groups of friends sending him wary glares in unison. He walked those same hallways alone, feeling the unfriendliness without a partner to shield him, feeling the swish of silk around his legs.

Slam! For the silk.

Flush! For the silk.

"Fag!" For the silk.

Feliks glared up at the broad retreating back from his position crumpled below his locker. Someday he was going to say it. Someday was going to come back with "You can suck it Ludwig cuz we all know you want to!" But whose case would that help? No one, that was who. It was simply fate that Feliks Łukasiewicz was going to be the butt of every joke, the recipient of every punch in this school. Everyone screwed Feliks over.

And they _had _to use that word. It was tossed around like popcorn these days. He could hear it circulating in the hallway even now, though no one glanced at the Polish boy crumpled on the ground. It was a common sight. People used that word like it was spare change, but every time they said it Feliks couldn't help but feel like crying. He would not cry. Not all mascara was water-proof.

* * *

"Hey, Al, do you have a fag?"

"What the fuck, Arthur?"

"You know, a cigarette. Do you have one?"

"Jeez, thought you were casting aspirations on my innocence there. Oh! Speak of the devil!"

"I am kind of good at speaking of the devil."

"It's the Pollack herself."

"Dear lord, what have I summoned?"

The two boys passed Feliks with matching sneers. A boot casually made contact with his side, sending the Pole reeling. The green-eyed Arthur wore a leather jacket and punky boots, while the blue-eyed Alfred (what a stupid name!) was dressed in the ever-fashionable tattered bomber jacket and jeans. All in all, they made a suspiciously coordinated pair.

"Like, somebody totally needs to get laid," Feliks muttered to himself, watching the pair slap a high five that lingered just a moment too long. "Gawd, the sexual tension between those two is almost tangible."

He waited for the soft chuckle, the chiding "don't be mean, Feliks", beside him. Sighing, he realized that would be a long wait. Stupid to think he would still be here, he sighed, fixing a lock of stray hair with that sparkling pink clip. _Nobody is like me._

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_1795_

_The dissolution of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth_

_"What is that, Feliks?" Toris's hand pushed gently through the blonde's flax-colored locks, removing a tiny sparkling hair clip. The brown-haired boy's brow furrowed as he stared down at the accessory in his palm. "Isn't this for a girl?"_

_"Like, don't drop it! It'd be, like, totally impossible to find!" Feliks snatched it back, restoring the clip to its rightful place behind his ear. "Like, finding a hair clip in a rye field. Isn't that, like, totally an expression?"_

_"Uh, no. Why are you wearing it?"_

_"Elizaveta gave it to me! She's, like, totally sweet!"_

_"Hmph. It's not exactly appropriate, Feliks."_

_"Whatevs. Isn't it cute though? It's pink cuz my favorite colors are red and white, but she couldn't find one in stripes so she got pink cuz it's totally a mixture of red and white."_

_"Is that so?"_

_"Yeah. She has a green one, but she's wearing this one, too, cuz red and white are like totally her favorite colors. So we'll be, like, matching! She's going to, like, totally wear her clips today too, like, in solidarity!"_

_Feliks dangled his legs happily over the side of the hay bale. Glancing at his friend, he saw that Toris's mouth was still twisted in a scowl, his eyes averted. This was a job for the Warsaw rule! Feliks turned and swung his leg over his friend's hip, kneeling over the boy's legs. It was a common threat in those days – "pay attention to me or I'll, like, totally sit on you!" – but for some reason Toris didn't respond with a roll of the eyes and a half-annoyed, half-humorous sigh. His eyes widened, a glimmer of fear deep in their forest-green depths. Feliks pushed on anyway. What the hell was wrong today?_

_"Liet, you should like, totally, wear one too! We could be, like, triplets!"_

_A chill went down the blonde's spine as Toris turned away, glaring off into the fields._

_"Give it up, Feliks. I'm not like you. We are NOT the same."_

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And, of course, there was Ivan. He and Ludwig were the absolute worst. It was funny – they hated each other, but that never stopped them from ganging up on Feliks. It never brought them closer together, either. And somehow, everyone wound up being intimidated by those two bullies, so no one would ever stand up for Feliks.

Not even today. November 11th. His birthday – the day he was supposed to be the pretty pink princess, gracefully receiving gifts from the peasantry.

He wouldn't care, wouldn't give a shit about those losers, if he could just have Toris on his side. But somehow it was his oldest friend who had done a complete 180. He missed the Liet whose smile was soft and slow, the Liet who taught him how to ice skate, the Liet whose hair turned auburn in the setting sun.

Mass was the only time he ever caught a glimpse of Toris without the looming figure of Ivan Braginski. Yes, it was a technically a Catholic boarding school, but it hadn't been doctrinally Catholic for years and the student body was actually rather religiously diverse so non-Catholic students (Ivan practiced Eastern Orthodox) were not required to attend services. Still, Toris wouldn't meet his eyes, even without Ivan's posse around him.

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_1919_

_The Polish-Lithuanian War_

_"Liet! Like, where are you going? We totally haven't seen each other all summer!"_

_As soon as the other boy turned around, Feliks knew something was wrong. There was no sparkling little smile in Toris's eyes, no welcoming tilt of the head. His friend's eyes were hard and disengaged. Feliks looked down, put off by Toris's glare, nervously pleating the hem of his ambiguously-blouselike shirt._

_"Feliks…"_

_Suddenly the light dimmed, blocked by the imposing entrance of Ivan. He'd come up, big feet silent in even bigger boots, behind Toris to place a large, protective hand on the boy's shoulder. Toris flinched slightly, but his iron stare did not leave Feliks's face. The blonde felt his cheeks color. What was this? The Inquisition?_

_There was an inexplicable exchange, Toris's brown eyes momentarily locked on Ivan's cold violet ones. Perhaps there was a barely-noticeable inclination of Ivan's head. Then Toris returned his attention to Feliks, his gaze running along Feliks's myriad glittering hair clips, his spice-glossed lips, his ever-so-slightly wedged boots, and that wonderful ambiguously-blouselike shirt that he had picked out especially for the first day of school._

_"To be me," he'd explained to his doubtful mother, "without being frighteningly me."_

_"Feliks," Toris said now, that cold stare so piercing that Feliks could not meet it. "You look like a fag."_

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**Up Next! Arthur reads Tennyson, Feliks figures out how much it would cost to pay Kiku to "do it for him", and boys bond over Prada and Roman Catholicism.**


	2. Chapter 2: Though in the battle

**In this installment: finally, humor! Lots of it. Italy shows up, as do Prussia and Francis. It's getting trippy.**

**Note: "So said the actress to the bishop" is an early English version of "that's what she said." Basically, in case you live under a rock, it means "IN BED!"**

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**Solidarność**

**Chapter 2: Tennyson and Prada**

_"In December 1740, Frederick II of Prussia invaded the Habsburg provice of Silesia in eastern Germany. Maria Theresa had to fight for her inheritance."_

_-Kagan, Ozment, and Turner. Also known as "God"._

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"As if some lesser god had made the world / But had not force to shape it as he would / Till the High God behold it from beyond / And enter it, and make it beautiful?" The green-eyed Brit read with the intonation of one naturally prone to drama, grinning past the text to his partner-in-crime. "So said the actress to the bishop."

"Young man! Lord Alfred Tennyson did not write that!"

"Huh-what?" Alfred turned around in his seat. He had apparently been ogling a suspicious magazine beneath his desk and was not being suitably appreciative of Arthur's antics. Arthur's bountiful brows furrowed in annoyance.

"Not you. The Brit who is defiling his own heritage by inserting crude remarks!" Their literature teacher was a young Scottish woman who seemed to despise Arthur despite his gift for drama. "If we could please, please, dear Lord, have a different volunteer to read the next passage?"

Feliks bit his lip in intense concentration as his pen scritch-scratched a very, very important plan. This could be the make-it-or-break-it, salvation or damnation, absolutely everything.

Vash. No - €35 – YesGilbert. No - €50 – NoFrancis. Yes - ? – . Maybe - ¥90 – Yes.

"Hey, Feliks, what are you writing so diligently? Is it notes, eh?" A friendly, nondescript face peered at the very absorbed Polish boy from the seat in front of him.

"Oh, hey…uh…" He should know this name. He really, really should know this. They had only been going to school together for, like, eight years! But somehow the other boy looked only vaguely familiar. Feliks gave up. "It's like, a list of my prospects. The first column is, like, whether they'd do it or not, and then the price I'd like totally expect them to demand, and the last is whether it'd be, like, worth it to me."

"Eh? Feliks…I never believed the rumors…"

"What the hell are you on about? I'm, like, making a list of, like, who I'm going to pay to write up my lab report for biology."

"Ohhh," the other boy sighed, pushing back a silky lock of golden brown hair. He adjusted his glasses self-consciously. "Well…I guess I could write up your lab for you. It doesn't sound too hard…I don't know if it'll be good though, eh?"

Feliks wasn't listening. "Hey, I, like, totally have a question to ask you."

"Eh?" The brunette blushed, his glasses sliding down his nose again. He glanced around quickly, as though fearing that the A's would mock him for speaking nicely to the oft-bullied Feliks. In truth, that boy was immune to roughly every from of social cruelty, since no one ever noticed him.

"What's your name, again?"

Sigh. He got that a lot. "I'm Matthew. But you'll probably forget it…maybe I should wear a nametag, eh?"

Feliks turned away, immediately bored. He inspected his fingernails until the bell, when it was time to brave the hallway once again…at least Gilbert, once so easily defeated by the dynamic duo, was no longer bothering him. Somehow, that Gilbert had really grown up recently, gotten a lot stronger…but in the end he was still defeated by his own arrogance. For some reason, he was never at school anymore…

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_Present day_

_A really janky detention center, Janksville_

_Ok, this shithole in no way deserves my awesomeness, thought Gilbert. His nose took its customary position stuck high into the air, his arms crossed angrily across his chest. Just because I gave that pansy piano boy a black eye…little son of a bitch deserved it! They haven't even heard what I've done to that dirty Pollack!_

_He sighed, observing the limp noodles that passed as lunch in this detention center. The low-class gang members clustered around him, obviously in awe of his total awesomeness. They were stupid little rats, these ordinary criminals. They didn't fight for honor or principle – for example, the principle of giving piano-boy a knuckle sandwich because the little virtuoso didn't think it was "proper" for Gilbert to flirt with his very, very attractive mother, Maria. Gilbert flirts with who he wants to flirt with! Especially the beautiful Maria, always playing hard-to-get! I'll invade her Habsburg empire! Gilbert thought. She knows she likes me._

_But everyone else here was for petty crimes, like vandalism. Vandalism was fun – Gilbert had done his fair share of it – but he wasn't stupid enough to "tag". Not with his actual name anyway – who would be able to trace "His Awesomeness" to the completely innocuous Gilbert Weillscmidt? It wasn't like he wrote it as his legal name on all official documents or anything. Not usually, anyway._

_But. Oh, dear God. If that voice was who he thought it was…_

_"I mean, come on! So I was working at the grocery store and this super cute little Italian comes up to me, asks for help carrying out his groceries. Well, I carried HIM out. Bridal style, you know. So apparently not exactly having the firmest grip in the world is an offense! Yes, hands do occasionally slip between legs and where I come from we call that a COMPLIMENT!"_

_Gilbert tried to make himself very, very small._

_"Heyyy, what do we have here?"_

_A gentle, well-educated hand entangled itself in his silver hair as the scent of roses filled him with dread. Warm breath on the back of his neck whispered, "My God, I really like your hair. Would you like to do big brother Francis a favor?"_

_This penance-for-sins thing is total shit._

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Feliks was not suited well to sulking. He couldn't wait for the last bell to ring, so that he could become the real Feliks, the sunshine-bright and hopelessly irrelevant teenager, the boy who was a dramatic and headstrong human being rather than merely an object to be kicked, the real Feliks who went straight home after school to switch school-required blazer and slacks for a super-cute tank top and fluffy skirt. When that last bell rang, he could be the real Feliks.

But today there was an object impeding his flight.

"Ve ~? I think I saw you at Mass today…?"

The blonde's eyes widened, then quickly averted, fixing upon his own (very stylish) shoes. A flush spread across his face. He could feel his own hands quivering and wished desperately that the uniform had pockets to hide in. Feliks had never been good with strangers, after all. He closed his eyes, praying that when he opened them there would be a protective figure in front of him, a resigned Liet who knew about his silly quirks and still thought it was worth comforting him.

When Feliks did raise his lids, there was nothing between him and the opponent. If the opponent was still there – all the boy could see at the moment were his own (very stylish) shoes. He allowed his gaze to travel slowly, cautiously, to ascertain the presence of the stranger.

The Pole's eyes passed over the all-too-familiar hideously flecked tile of the floor until the lighted upon a foreign pair of (very, very stylish) shoes. Prada. Suddenly, this stranger didn't seem so unfamiliar after all.

"Oh my gawd! I like, totally, love your shoes!" Feliks all-but-squealed. The boy opposite him smiled, tilting his head sleepily to the side.

"Thanks. I'm Feliciano. I go to this school now! I was homeschooled before, but I couldn't transfer at the beginning of the term because a traumatic experience happened to me! Now I'm recovered, though, ve~!"

"That, like, totally sucks. I'm Feliks, and," he extended a strangely confident hand to shake Feliciano's. Somehow, it seemed like though they had only just met, they had a lot in common: shoes, trauma, and Roman Catholicism. "we should totally go shoe-shopping together sometime!"

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They did. Feliks's back twinged as he threw the extremely heavy shopping bag full of well-earned treasures onto his bedspread. It had been a fruitful, if exhausting, afternoon. Feliciano, for some reason, looked utterly unperturbed. He was as chipper as ever, sporting that gleeful eyes-closed grin, though his pile of shoes was not as limited by budget as Feliks's.

"Oh, Holy Mary," Feliks complained, feeling his back crack as he straightened. "I totally wish Liet was here to, like, carry my crap like he used to."

"Ve~? Liet?"

"Do you, like, know him already? His name's really Toris, but I totally call him Liet. Cuz that's where he's from."

"Oh, sì, he is always staring you down in class!" Feliciano paused, a hand confusedly going to his temple. "I can't quite tell what for, though."

"He, like, totally hates my guts," Feliks sighed, reclining onto his fluffy magenta pillows and motioning for Feliciano to take a seat. Toris used to hate sitting in that lovely lavender-striped bean bag chair, claiming it was bad for his back. You're, like, such an old man, Liet! "We used to, like, be total BFFs though."

"Hmmm…" Feliciano crossed his legs, resting his chin on one upturned palm, Thinker-esque. "I wonder, though…he is always staring at you…"

"Yeah, I, like, totes don't understand it either."

"You know what my friend Kiku told me?" Feliciano asked. Feliks shook his head, brightening at the change of topic. He reached for a bottle of silvery nail polish to apply as he listened– after all, the Pole's attention span was not the most prolific in the world. "Toris may hate you, but at least you share something in common."

"Hn?" What could they share? Height? History? None of that mattered in the here and now.

The Italian smiled, tilting his head to the side. "Your faith."

Feliks's eyes widened. "I guess that's true…"

"But Kiku, most of his antagonists don't share his faith! They don't even have that one point of connection! The boys at school can make fun of your clothes and your speech but they can't condemn your God. That is one place that is safe from them."

Feliks sighed. "I don't see that it makes much of a difference. Even Christians argue among themselves…and we do it all the time." Ivan and Ludwig. The dissenters.

They sat in silence until all ten nails were suitably shiny. Feliciano was fine, he was nice, but he wasn't…well, it wasn't hard to talk to him, but somehow he didn't make words tumble out of Feliks's mouth unbidden…he didn't ignite that little spark of happy-to-see-you, he didn't have that slow, golden smile…

"BRB. I'm, like, going to get something to drink," Feliks said offhandedly. He trotted downstairs to fetch a nice, refrigerated bottle of lemon-lime soda and poured two glasses. Liet always hated colas, so Feliks never had them on hand…how it stayed with him, those quirks that no longer mattered in daily life. Hah. I'm so pathetic.

He took a little longer than necessary to carry the glasses back upstairs, if only to ponder Feliciano's point. He wasn't totally convinced that religion mattered when everyone was ready to kick his ass anyway, but Feliciano was a guest and a new friend, so he would have to find something nice to say.

"I, like, guess you kind of have a point," Feliks finally conceded, putting down the glasses to hold up his newly-iced nails to the light. They were undamaged by the (very strenuous) pouring. "This one chick, Yael, she's, like, totes alone if we're talking religion. Except Alfred's always trying to get into her pants. Like, my sister Elizaveta is totally on rocky terms with her."

"See?" Feliciano grinned again. Feliks took a swig of soda, satisfied that he had been suitably polite to his guest. "Say, that Ludwig guy is really cute, ve~?"

"Pfff-?" Citrus soda went aching through the air as Feliks spluttered for breath. Perhaps he and his new friend had less in common than he'd originally thought.

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**Coming Soon! Ivan goes Russian on that little sucker, Feliks practices his "obliging maid" act in the mirror, and It's a Mystery! Feliciano Goes Missing!**


	3. Chapter 3: The martyrs may fall

**In this installment: Feliks remembers the Golden Ages, Feliciano remembers that the art room isn't used 5th period, and nobody remembers Matthew's name.**

**Warning: Russian misuse of articles. Sorry. Russians are funny. Slight Canada/Poland if you squint and squint-worthy Germany/Italy Veneziano. If you squint very, very hard there is some Hungary/Ke$ha.**

_1447_

_Official union of Poland and Lithuania_

_It was not the first day they'd met, but it was the first day they had known they would always be friends. Who knew the shy-looking kid from the down the street would turn out to be such a good companion? Who knew the mean-looking blonde would turn out to be such a hilarious buddy? Who knew that they had so much in common?_

_Okay, so Liet wasn't the most exciting friend, and Feliks wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. But that was why they were so close - they completed each other. Each filled the holes of the other and made a stronger whole than either alone. Everyone knew it – these two were buddies that would be inseparable for life._

_Roderich's fingers were light and graceful on the keys, even if he was just giving them starting pitches. He barely even had to look at the music to play the right notes. Usually Feliks loved watching his skill, but today his eyes were focused elsewhere. Feliks watched the Lithuanian from across the rehearsal hall. His young gaze was focused solely on Toris's gently moving lips. He was captivated, for one sole reason…_

_"I know you're, like, totally mouthing the words," Feliks accused the boy after rehearsal, arms pompously akimbo. "That's like, totally unfair. You're, like, making the rest of the choir do more work!"_

_"I…" Toris looked down, a creamy blush coloring his face. He mumbled something inaudible, but Feliks's condemning stamping of the foot demanded a repeat. "I don't know how to say them…"_

_Feliks grinned, lightly slapping the back of the brunette's well-combed head. "Don't be, like, such a dumbass! You're, like, s'posed to ask for help!"_

_So they found an empty practice room, and Toris painstakingly found the opening notes while Feliks painstakingly taught him the pronunciation. Toris blushed the whole way through, nearly whispering the words as though to make a mistake would be to incriminate himself for the heinous crime of not speaking Latin. Each time Feliks cracked up into a fit of giggles at the stupid way he pronounced something, it grew easier and easier to make a mistake. Somehow, the embarrassment that should come from being laughed at did not emerge. A mistake was just that – a mistake. It was funny. That's life. Eventually, the words seemed to come naturally from Toris's mouth, like he'd known the song all along and merely needed Feliks to explain it to him._

_Afterwards, Feliks demanded that Toris buy him an ice cream cone as payment for his benevolent instruction. Sitting on a bench near the stand, they partook in their frozen treat, though Toris only had enough change to buy one and thus they had to share. Feliks slung an arm casually around his friend's shoulders whilst Toris groaned at the mischievous glint in the Pole's catlike eyes. Something terrible this way comes, surely. Unfortunately, his intuition was correct: Feliks began belting out the song they had been learning all afternoon. At the top of his lungs. Off-key. In public._

_"Laus eius in ecclesia_

_ In ecclesia sanctorum_

_ Cantate domino canticum novum_

_Laetetur Israel in eo _

_Qui fecit eum et filiae Sion_

_Exultent in rege suo!"_

_That's a preview, folks! Like, y'all should totally show up on Sunday when we do it for real!"_

_Toris couldn't help but giggle, throwing a hand over his new friend's mouth to silence him._

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_Feliks had no trouble switching between MIKA and hymns on his MP3 player. He went from "_Gloria! In exelcis deo_!" to "_Don't let the stars get you down, don't let the waves let you drown, oh Billy Brown_!" His only rule was that all music played between the hours of 1:00 and 20:00 _must_ be happy. After eight in the evening and until one in the morning, however, he was free to sob along to depressing teenage anthems all he liked. Any longer than five hours would be just ridiculous, after all. Anyway, he needed his beauty sleep.

So he bopped down the hallway, shaking his blonde locks in time to his bouncy pop music. New shoes are _always _worth a celebration. He was so enthusiastic that he had to hold the earbuds in with his hands to keep them from falling out. _Bullies like totes suck at getting me down, _Feliks thought, performing a little jazz square next to the drinking fountain in his new high-heeled purple dancing shoes. He thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar golden smile beneath auburn locks and eyes that matched his own. Feliks felt an answering smile tilt the corners of his own mouth.

_Cuz oooooh heaven is a place on Earth!_

_Slam_! For the smile.

Ivan's giant mittened hand pushed the side of Feliks's head into the wet surface of the drinking fountain, his snide grin blindingly bright. The blood rushed behind his ears, a small trickle breaking the skin to course down his forehead. Feliks blinked and gasped. He squirmed, trying to aim a high-heeled foot at his captor's leg, but the Slav was too big to escape, even though only one hand held the Pole's head down. The other dipped out of sight, leaving Feliks to wonder what Ivan had in store for him. His answer came all too quickly.

The fountain spluttered on, water spraying all over the Pole's carefully made-up face. It got into his eyes, all over his chin, and _Oh Holy Mary in heaven please no _into his hair. It was cheap school water, hard water, full of minerals and chemicals and God knows what other unsavory items

"_You son-of-a-bitch_! That water is like _totally_ fucking hard and it is going undo, like, _three months _of conditioning! I _am_ prone to split ends, you know!" Feliks shrieked, flailing helplessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a trio of Baltic students watching him nervously. Through the stream of water, it appeared that Toris was staring resolutely at his own (very manly) shoes.

"Oh, you are not liking the hard, da?" Ivan growled, grabbing the Pole's hair and jerking his head. The Russian maneuvered Feliks's head so that water streamed into his mouth, overflowing, and down his neck, dampening his dress shirt. Through tears of anger, Feliks could not swallow and spluttered helplessly. Oh, God, if he didn't get to breathe soon…! "This is what you are calling the irony! You will suck the water, you are enjoying this, da?"

Ivan let go just in time. With a jerk of his powerful wrist, he sent the boy's head crashing against the side of the drinking fountain, where blood mingled with water and dripped over the sides.

"This is teaching you not to do the flirting at Toris!"

Feliks looked up, through the stream of red flowing down his forehead, to see Ivan stride off, the Baltics in tow. It seemed for a moment as though Toris would look back at him. But that was silly. Of course, it didn't happen.

MP3 cords dangled around his neck. Feliks picked one up, surprised to hear that the music was still playing unfettered. _Hah! I can, like, drop this thing by accident, like, ONCE, and it breaks, but it can like totally withstand Ivan the Terrible?_

_"Sucking too hard on your lollipop, oh, love's gonna get you down!"_

Feliks switched the song quickly, to a lovely a capella women's choir hymn. Sometimes it was better not to relate to your music at all. Sometimes it was better to hear praises rather than complaints. Sometimes it was better if your music was completely irrelevant. Ah, the joys of Latin!

* * *

In the bathroom, he washed the matted blood out of his own hair. Feliks really could have done with some disinfectant, but he didn't dare go the nurse – she would want to know how he'd gotten hurt, and then who'd done it, and then Feliks would have to tell (he totally wasn't a liar) and then the shit would hit the fan.

It was fine to be beaten up by Ivan. Well, no, it wasn't fine – but it was to be expected. Ivan was bigger, stronger, and more jerkass-y than anyone else Feliks knew. What was wrong, the jarring note in a fluid scale, what was so inexcusable – was that Toris had watched. No – Toris couldn't even do that. He sat on the sidelines while his childhood friend was humiliated, refusing even to raise his eyes and face the damage that Feliks was suffering at the hands of Toris's new BFF.

"I taught him how to sing _Exultent in Rege_," Feliks sighed to himself. "Great, great Catholic values, Liet. Way to stand up for the meek."

Feliks winced as he cleaned the wound on his temple, using only soap and (hard) water. He prayed that there was no blood caked onto the back of his head, as he could not turn far enough in the boy's room's tiny mirror to see. He didn't feel comfortable asking Feliciano to help him – they were friends, yes, but it wasn't right to let that ever-cheerful Italian see him in a vulnerable state. Speaking of, where was Feliciano? He hadn't seen the other since third period maths. Probably skipped school because tomatoes were in season.

The Pole turned to his reflection once more. He didn't carry hair product in his bag, unfortunately, so he'd have to make do with only a quick comb-through. Pep-talk time.

He glared at himself in the mirror.

"I am stronger than a bully."

He turned to the side and tried to assume a muscle-man pose.

"I am Feliks!"

He pouted at himself and batted his eyelashes.

"I am Polska!"

He curtsied, pretending he was wearing skirts.

"I am very pleased to meet you, kind sir."

He winked, letting his tongue slide ever so slightly out between his lips.

"I am to escort you to your room, honorable guest, and provide you with _the services_."

Feliks straightened, parting his hair for the last time. It would have to do, even in its inexcusably ratty state. At least his shoes were cute. He applied one last coat of spice-flavored lip gloss, and turned on his (very fashionable) purple heel to go find Feliciano and tell him the most wonderful gossip he'd heard. It was about one Gilbert Weillschmidt and a certain pianist's objectively attractive mother.

_

* * *

_

Feliciano was not in the lunchroom. However, freshly baked cinnamon rolls were, so Feliks had to postpone his search for the Italian until he had fully investigated the baked goods. Once he had ascertained that he could make better ones, Polish-style, he resumed the investigation. He started by asking that one kid from English class – oh, God, what was his name? – if he'd seen the Italian.

That one kid from English class was eyeing the school lunch suspiciously. "It's not poutine, eh, but I guess it'll have to do…"

"Hey, um…" Feliks paused. It would come to him. It just had to! It didn't. "You there! With the glasses and the downtrodden expression!"

"Hello, Feliks. My name's Matthew."

"Right. I, like, totes don't care. I have to find Feliciano! I have, like, super-duper important news for him!" Feliks lowered his voice confidentially, but not so confidentially that the whole lunch room couldn't hear him. "_It's about Gilbert W. asking Roderich's mother to, like, do the nasty with him_."

"Eh?" Martin's (that was his name, right?) eyes widened "Is that so?"

"But have you seen Feliciano?"

Markus (it was Markus, wasn't it?) shook his silky head. "No. I think he went home sick, or something? In fourth period he said he had to go to the nurse's office, so Ludwig took him…"

"Thanks!" Feliks bent down to give Mike a European goodbye. The masses surely would have twittered, but thankfully Mohammed was invisible so no one except the recipient noticed the light kiss on the cheek. The recipient, however, noticed it very much, and blushed deeply.

* * *

"Feliciano…" He was most definitely not in the nurse's office. "Come out, _come out_, wherever you are…" Feliks snorted. _You're one to talk, Feliks ma boy._

The nurse wouldn't lie to him, right? After all, she liked Feliks. He was her last resort when her eyeliner went askew – after all, her hands were unsteady. She needed to impress a certain heavy-browed Brit who often came to her office complaining of a cold. She was under the (very mistaken) impression that he faked the colds in order to see her. No. The nurse was being truthful.

So where the hell was Feliciano? It wasn't like him to skip class unless he'd totally forgotten that he had to go.

During desperate times like these, Feliks depended on advice from his hair-clip lending cousin, Elizaveta.

"Dear Feliks," she might have told him once. Then again, she might not have. On the other hand, she was a little shadier than she originally appeared. "If you're looking for a show, I know a place you can go. They go hardcore, and there's glitter on the floor."

Of course! The arts-and-crafts room! Feliciano did love drawing. He'd probably totally forgotten about school and gone to the arts room in order to practice his painting!

* * *

_2010_

_FIFA World Cup: German and Italy never faced off. Thank God. The Hetalia fans would've been louder than the vuvuzelas._

_"Feliciano! Are you alright?" Ludwig's usually stoic face was twisted in concern, his large hand gentle on the petite Italian's shoulder._

_"Ve~? I'm not sick." Feliciano tilted his head happily. "Let's go and paint in the art room!"_

_"You can't just skip class!" The German's brow furrowed in frustration. Not anger. Never anger, not with Feliciano. He spun the Italian to face him, as if the force of his glare could knock some sense into that silly, silly boy. Unfortunately, the centrifugal motion seemed to make Feliciano giddy._

_"Ludwig…?" Feliciano's mouth curled happily, his eyes shut, as ever, in some blissful dream. A delicate pink blush decorated his smiling cheeks. Suddenly that blush looked a little less innocent. Ludwig felt his insides curl in something that might have been anticipation. "Would you…model for me?"_

_

* * *

_

Elizaveta was right. There _was_ glitter on the floor, as well as other art supplies and body parts and unmentionable things. And it _was_ hardcore. Feliks turned away from the little second-story window that looked into the art room, disgusted, and shimmied back down the tree. Not before he'd snapped a couple pictures for his cousin, of course. He didn't think he'd be able to look at them long enough to send them to her, though – who'd want to see their best-replacement-friend getting it on with their second-worst-enemy?

_"Get out of the way ," Ludwig had said once with a casual fist to Feliks's face. "Don't you have a choir boy to be sodomizing?"_

_That sauerkraut-obsessed, beer-guzzling, totally un-fabulous bastard! He is such a fucking hypocrite! _Feliks thought now, pummeling the base of the tree with self-righteous gusto. _He has the gall to like totally condemn _me_ for wearing a skirt (which is NOT a sin by the way) and then go and…!_

Feliks settled for expressing his anger by sending a text to his once-friend, the treacherous Feliciano. Though if he had judged the situation correctly, it would be quite a while yet for his text to be returned.

**Dear Voyeuristic Cousin Elizaveta,**

** The German and the Italian. Like, in the art room. With a paintbrush.**

** Love, Feliks**

** Dear Hyperbole-Prone Feliks,**

** Pics or it didn't happen.**

** Love, Elizaveta**

** Dear St. Elizaveta Aquinas,**

** Unfortunately, totally pics AND it happened.**

** Love, Feliks**

** [IMG_HOLYSHIT and IMG_OHGODMYEYES and IMG_THATSFUCKEDUP sent to SomloiGaluska69]**

** Dear My Best Friend Forever Feliks,**

** ILU!**

** Love, love, love, Elizaveta**

** P.S. I will make you paprikás to express my gratitude.**

* * *

In the end, he couldn't send an angry text to Feliciano. What was he supposed to say? That loving someone you shouldn't was wrong? That Feliciano was desecrating the name of the Church as well as the art room? That you shouldn't skip class to do the nasty with your sort-of-friend's second-worst-enemy? That, to be honest, he couldn't stand the texture of panna cotta?

They were all hypocrites.

They would turn their back on their values and convictions as soon as abandon their best friends. They were fickle, adolescent fair-weather friends. Feliks's temple throbbed, that Russian wound opening again to trickle a tiny trail of blood down his face. That morning, that water fountain incident…that was the last straw. It was time to stop dwelling on his former best friend, stop hoping that Liet would come to his senses…obviously Liet was a poisonous friend, a back-stabber, a cruel human being who had no empathy and was not worthy of Feliks's time.

* * *

**Next Up! Angst and snowballs, vodka, and a kiss.**


	4. Chapter 4: Labor united

**In this installment: remember the angst-n-moe, vodka-as-hair-gel, and oh-shit-I-have-a-gymnastics-meet-in-like-five-hours. It is shorter than usual for this reason. But it contains a kiss, so there.**

**What do you mean, "why is there a prairie behind their school"? There's a prairie behind my school. For real. We get to trek through it in AP Biology.**

**

* * *

**

_1793_

_Russia partitions Poland (surprise surprise) and gets most of Lithuania_

_"Snowball is hitting my face, da?" The other boy stood above Feliks, his violet glare in sharp contrast to his pink-flushed smiling cheeks. Feliks felt a shiver run down his spine, and it wasn't just from the cold: this Ivan Braginski guy was dangerous. He could feel it. "You are paying for this!"_

_Feliks was already crouched the ground. He couldn't see his Liet, for the other boy was behind a well-built snow fort's wall. He knew Toris would come for him shortly, though. Liet always did. Liet always came at the exact right moment, whether he was fetching the vanilla which Feliks needed like-OMG-right-now-caramel-doesn't-wait or defending his best friend from Gilbert. _

_Speaking of. The albino strode up as Feliks shivered on the frosted ground, with the crunch-crunch-crunch of heavy boots through a layer of crystallized snow. Feliks's mittens were too thin, he realized, as his remaining snowball began to melt through the fabric and trickled with icy pain down his wrists._

_Feliks looked up, past Ivan's empty stare, past Gilbert's bloody eyes. He grinned, much to the surprise of his attackers. _

_"Totally late. Again. You remember, don't you, Gilbert?"_

_With a gleeful screech, Toris launched himself onto Ivan's back, pushing the other boy into a bank of snow. Feliks simultaneously sprang into action, hurling the half-melted snowball into Gilbert's face. They met after having put each attacker down and leapt, laughing, hand-in-hand, over a snowdrift to make their glorious retreat._

_Unfortunately, boots met ice, and bodies met frozen ground violently. Toris's hat was knocked askew, Feliks's face pressed to the Lithuanian's throat in a painful, warm collision. Both breathed slowly, winded by the fall, until a booted foot colder than the ice beneath them kicked the blonde off of his friend. Ivan's powerful shoulders contracted beneath his coat as he lifted Toris into the air, a maniacal grin spreading slowly across his pleasant features._

_"Leave him alone!" Feliks screeched, but his voice was lost in the controlling mitten of Gilbert crouching beside him. Gilbert spat in his face, but the blonde refused to give in, attempting to bite the Prussian's gloved hand. Gilbert made a noise of disgust and stood to join Ivan. The Russian seemed to be holding Toris close to him in a strange enemy's embrace. Feliks could barely see beyond Toris's limp brown locks, but Ivan appeared to be whispering something to his friend. Within moments, Ivan let go, and Toris collapsed back into the snow, his eyes blank and unfocused as Feliks had never seen them before. All the Polish boy could do was extend a comforting hand to his friend, who took it numbly._

_To Ivan's retreating back, the Pole screeched, albeit with a quiver in his voice, "Learn how to use goddamn articles!"_

* * *

Feliks reclined lazily on the sun-flecked slope behind the school, one foot casually stuck in the air as he pursued a fashion magazine. With the light wind rustling through the prairie not too far away, he could almost imagine that the sunlight fell on tall, golden rye instead of manicured lawn, that he had nowhere to be and nothing to do but simply lie within a dream, that the whistling wind that gusted through his hair was fingers and voice, smile and eyes, his Liet…

That breeze did sound an awful lot like a voice. A nervous, quivering voice. A heartbreaking, familiar voice.

The Polish boy sat straight upright, hair swinging into place, his eyes wide, as he listened.

"P-please, I swear…I swear I didn't…I…please, Ivan, I don't have anywhere else to go…"

Feliks flinched as the muffled sound of a vindictive slap echoed through the courtyard. Heavy, shuffling boots, all too familiar, thudded rhythmically and the Polish boy prayed frantically that the sound would become softer. Ivan's rage was a pathological thing, one that could not be quelled by things such as reason and kindness.

God must have been listening – Feliks's wish was granted. Sitting rod-straight, forest-green eyes wide as a deer's, he listened until the Russian's footsteps faded to silence. Diminuendo al niente. Thank God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary herself!

Once the thudding rhythm of imminent doom had gone, another sound emerged. A soft, ebbing sob, breaking and becoming faster, infused by panicky breaths, as he listened. Feliks knew what that meant. Toris was not taking his medicine. It seemed his conviction of only an hour prior, that tenuous decision that all former ties of friendship must be sliced cleanly, would be revised to include a clause of "except in extreme circumstances".

Swallowing hard, Feliks stood before he could doubt himself. Turned the corner before he could doubt himself. Once he saw Toris, there was no way he could doubt himself.

His childhood friend was crumpled against the brick wall, eyes closed and head tilted back. It was a golden smile hidden on that chapped, gasping mouth, a friend in those shaking shoulders, Liet in the tears that coursed brokenly down cheek and chin and neck. Toris's lovely brown hair was damp with sweat and tears, clumped in an ugly mass at the base of his neck. Feliks swallowed hard again, and before he could stop himself, his arms were around the boy, his face pressed into that quivering shoulder, as though by sheer power of holding him close, he could stop the tremors.

Feliks breathed slowly, steadily, in an example for Toris to follow. Just like when they were children, Toris needed an example to ground himself when he became lost in panic. Gradually the rhythm of their bodies, pressed together, merged into one cohesive heartbeat, and Feliks drew back.

"What's in your hair?" He said quietly, almost reverently. It was not only sweat and tears, he had realized. The Pole should not have had to ask – during their embrace, he had smelled the answer. But it seemed right to give the Lithuanian the power to tell his own story.

The tremor in Toris's voice was slight. "Vodka."

Feliks sighed, leaning forward to wipe a tear from his friend's face. "I can't believe that man! And what he did to me in the hallway today…!"

And then, inevitably, cruelly, "You deserved it."

Feliks's eyes hardened as he inspected the other. Of course, they were not friends. He'd nearly forgotten. He drew back.

It appeared Toris could not stop talking. His gaze would not meet the Pole's, instead loftily fixed upon the prairie behind him, his mouth set in a hard, unyielding line. "Ivan says you lot get what's coming to you. You're a real idiot if you think you can flirt with me in the hallway and get away with it."

"What. The. Hell."

"I'm not like you, Feliks. You should know that by now."

"It's called a smile, you bastard! Not a flirt, not a kiss, not a fuck!" Feliks's rage was building. He truly was an idiot to think that Toris would be grateful, to think that Toris needed his help, to think that power of good in friendship was greater than the power of evil in high school. But he couldn't help but whimper, "We used to be friends."

"I can't be friends with you." Toris fixed him now, with eyes like emerald ice. "You…you've…it's a sin, you know."

Feliks stood, exasperated, stomping a high-heeled foot in absolute fury. His ankle twinged at the heady contact with concrete sidewalk, which served only to accelerate the righteous fire building inside him. One more spark issued from his mouth, though he knew he ought to get away from that poisonous once-friend that was his Liet. Toris. Never his Liet again.

"WHAT exactly is a sin, pray tell? Wearing heels? Long hair? Skirts?" He was shouting now, nearly screeching, though Toris's face was turning pale in fear as he spoke. Of course, that little treacherous bastard would kill himself if rumor got out that he'd been hanging out in the courtyard with that fag Feliks Łukasiewicz. That fag who was pure as freshly fallen snow. Purer than most of the boys at this school. "I haven't done a single fucking thing except look fabulous!"

"No, Feliks," Toris stood as well, his downcast eyes hidden by a curtain of vodka-slicked hair. His shoulders began to quiver slightly again, his single step towards the blonde shaky and uncertain. "You're not the sinner."

Before Feliks, outraged and utterly confused, could wonder what Toris meant, he got his answer. His answer to the standoffish boy who had once been his best friend. His answer to the end of the golden ages of childhood and rye. His answer, pressed against that intimidating brick wall, with a familiar calloused hand at his throat and a golden smile pressed against his own mouth. Liet's hand in his hair, pressing him closer, unclipping that little pink hair clip that had started this entire mess.

It was rye and hair mixing together, turning auburn and burnished gold in the sunset. It was wonderful and terrible and inexcusable. It was Liet and pain and vodka and the sin that he'd been searching for.

It was so wrong.

* * *

**Coming Soon! Feliks gets his revenge, Toris gets a present, and everybody gets a little drunk. It gets cheesy, bitches.**


	5. Chapter 5: Shall conquer all

**A/N: oops, sorry, I lied. This is something of an interlude to the main story line. In this installment! POV-switching, truth-revealing and truth-concealing!**

Those delectable lips had smiled and scorned in equal measure. Toris had no right to take him like this, no right to claim that all the pain he'd caused had been because of some hidden desire. There was no reason Feliks should forgive his once-friend for every snide comment, every whispered assertion that "That blouse is ridiculous! Did he borrow it from his eight-year-old sister?" just because in truth Toris wanted nothing more than to rip that blouse off. The facts did not change.

Why, pray tell, was Feliks somehow not surprised by this turn of events?

Toris finally broke the connection, eyes wide and nothing short of terrified, drawing back in horror.

"Oh God…" he whispered, his forest-colored gaze not meeting Feliks's.

* * *

"To know that we know what we know, and to know that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge."

-Mikołaj Kopernik, astronomer ("Copernicus" in English)

* * *

_The daily torture began again. It was simple pain, and Toris knew he deserved it. He craved it._

_It was the pain of knowing he was nothing but a dirty bastard, a sinner and a fake._

_It was the pain of losing his closest friend and his love, all wrapped up in one, losing himself._

_It was the pain of knowing it was his own damn fault._

_Somehow, thoughts like a roiling serpent rose up from within him, thoughts that wrapped themselves around his unconscious if he let his guard down for a mere minute. They drove him to distance himself from their origin, to push that boy away, to take long cold showers and wear a rubber band as a deterrent around his wrist, which was soon rubbed raw._

_Ice on skin! For the thoughts._

_Snap, ouch! For the thoughts._

_"Fag." For the thoughts._

_Toris swallowed hard. Had he really said it? He must have. That word, that word full of electricity and condemnation, had come from his lips. Feliks's eyes were wide and shocked, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. Was it possible to go back? To say, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," and erase that ill-thought-out moment?_

_No. Because he did mean it._

_"You look like a fag," Toris repeated, Ivan's hand heavy and comforting on his shoulder. _

_He lay awake, staring at the ceiling which was always empty of answers._

_"It's his fault," Toris whispered. Feliks's fault for wearing the tantalizing skirts that made his legs miles long, the long blonde hair which brushed so enticingly against his neck, the perfectly applied lip gloss which Toris was sure he could almost taste, and would, given the chance._

_If only Feliks were not so jarringly playful, dancing and laughing without a thought to Toris's torment, pushing and pulling and joking like a child, _sitting on his lap_ for Christ's sake…Toris would never have had to push him away._

_"I'm only saving my soul," Toris said, tears of conflict beginning to sting his eyes. Did thoughts count the same as actions? They couldn't, could they? Even if he had sinned in his heart, he would not allow himself to translate those thoughts into actions, no matter how much his treacherous body wanted him to. His treacherous heart, which beat faster each time he came near that hazardous boy, was merely a false indicator. This was a test, Toris was sure, and he would resist that fruit no matter how innocently Feliks offered it to him_

_There was only one solution. To destroy the origin of sin._

_Toris couldn't hold his head high, couldn't look Feliks in the eye when he knew there would be pain and betrayal in those forest-green depths. To go through with this despicable treatment of his longest friend he had to make Feliks into an object – and object of desire and hate and resent. It was wrong and selfish. No!_

_"It's the only thing I can do." The Lithuanian rolled onto his side, some infinitesimal particle of salty water falling from face to pillow. It seemed like the only course of action, but that answer-less ceiling just would not shut up._

_"You'd be able to fix the whole thing," the ceiling said, a tiny crack like a mocking mouth Toris knew only too well, having studied it like Scripture, "if you weren't such a fucking coward."_

_Toris closed his eyes and pretended to sleep as he heard the slam of a door downstairs. Ivan was home, drunk and angry._

_

* * *

_

_Feliks was always like this, always irrelevant and idiotic and beautiful. He was even more enticing in his anger, hurt in those fiery green eyes, fists clenched as though he would strike. Toris's mind ran ahead of him, and he could almost pretend that anger was passion, limbs trembled with desire rather than fury._

_It was too much. He was too lovely, too kind. Toris would never deserve such a specimen. And that was the irony right there – ha! Everyone put themselves on a higher plane than Feliks merely for his choice of dress, when Toris knew his heart to be as pure as the Virgin Mary's. Toris hated his wayward mind, but at this moment, it almost seemed that cowardice was the greater sin._

_Feliks was too good. He was too kind, too innocent to be mistreated. Most of all, he was too close. Toris could feel his own frantic heartbeat slowing, his chest pressed against Feliks's steadily rising and falling one, the Pole's arms wrapped so softly around his back. Toris hated the things his imagination did to that innocent embrace._

_"I haven't done a single fucking thing except look fabulous!" Feliks protested, face flushed, his eyes alight with that emerald fire that might have been passion._

_That was when Toris, that weak and moronic sinner, finally lost it._

_At the moment of contact, Toris knew what he'd done was horrible and inevitable. He felt Feliks's mouth soften beneath his own, though the Pole's shoulders remained tense under his hands – whether from shock or disgust or something else entirely, it was hard to say._

_It was immediate, the repulsion that set the moment Toris reclaimed enough sense to pull away. What was he now? No better than that imaginary "Feliks", the slutty drag queen who was nothing like the real boy. The imagined specter that could bear shame and the fire of self-hate with impunity. No better than Ivan. What had he done?_

_"Oh God," came the words, tumbling like a prayer out of his mouth. He was asking for forgiveness, asking for the knowledge that, no, of course he hadn't just done what he'd been dreaming of for the last two years. After such a long stretch of time, there was no way he could have really given in and kissed Feliks._

_Toris knew he would spend yet another sleepless night asking the ceiling for answers, wishing he could wind back the clock, and waiting for the sound of a door slamming downstairs._

_

* * *

_

2010

Several US states allow same-sex marriage…but federal law does not.

"Well, daaamn." Alfred grinned up at the Brit from his roguishly casual seat on the grassy field, hair tossed hither and thither in the open wind. "Y'all done beat me again."

"Of course I did," said Arthur, foot planted triumphantly on the stationary ball. "You are absolute shit at football an-"

"I ain't! I f'ina beat yo' ass for that!"

Arthur merely glared affectionately down at his partner-in-crime. "Nobody calls it soccer except for you! And please, for the love of God, stop talking like that!"

"Make me."

There was a long, slow pause, in which the sun's leisurely descent towards the horizon seemed to halt momentarily as well. Twinkling blue eyes met green, and Alfred stood, taking a step towards his companion. The Brit flinched back, though his feet seemed rooted to the ground. His face was a mass of confusion, though perhaps an onlooker could discern the spark of hope that danced from his eye to Alfred's.

"What?"

"God, Artie, are you deaf?" Alfred leaned in close, his hand toying with the collar of Arthur's leather jacket. The only point of contact between the two was that tantalizing hand on Arthur's shoulder, and yet Alfred's posture seemed to indicate a million more just waiting, waiting to be employed. Arthur swallowed, his face as red as his socks. Their breath mingled, a mélange of Earl Grey and Marlboros and the heady, thick scent of highlands and desert. "I said…"

With one swift, punitive movement, Alfred spun his friend around, hip brushing hip, and kicked the soccer ball/football out from under Arthur's foot. The Brit became unbalanced, eyes wide with shock, and tumbled to the ground with a disgruntled "Oof." Alfred caught the soccer ball/football with one well-timed jump and turned to wink at his companion. "I said, _make me_."

The American left, stride broad and confident with the swagger that could only belong to such a masculine entity. He turned back only once, to wink at the boy crumpled in a resentful heap on the grassy field. "Smell ya later, loser!"

* * *

**In the next chapter! Some issues are worked out, most are not, and, damn, that Ludwig guy must spend a lot of time working out.**


	6. Chapter 6: United under

**A?N: In this chapter: an awful shitload of unresolved sexual tension, ambiguous circumstances, and the wonders of teenage metamorphosis. I also changed the chapter titles cause I got bored with the old ones...now they are female rap songs, or songs that have a section with a girl rapping, in the case of Up Out My Face (Mariah Carey feat. Nicki Minaj) and Zachem Ya (t.A.t.u. , English version is "Stars"). They are all worth listening to, in my opinion.**

**

* * *

**

"Solidarity, solidarity, solidarity forever! We're proud to be working-class…solidarity forever!"

-"Solidarity" from the musical _Billy Elliot_

_

* * *

_

"You want to be a ballet dancer? That's fuckin' weird, man."

-Michael, while exuberantly pulling on his sister's skirt, from _Billy Elliot_.

* * *

It was a long moment before Feliks reacted. He tipped his head back, letting his eyelids fall to guard him against the waning afternoon light. A quick rush of anger and astonishment bubbled up from deep within him, finally pouring out of his mouth in a jubilant rush of hysteria and laughter. Birds cawed and rustled in the surrounding trees as Feliks's laughter rebounded against the imposing brick wall against which a rather disgruntled Toris was now crumpled.

"It's…really, really not funny, Feliks," the boy muttered self-consciously, his head hung low. He nervously snapped and unsnapped that ominous pink hair clip, unconsciously creating a regular clicking rhythm in time with his heart.

"And to think – and to think -" the Pole cackled, kicking his feet in absolute mirth. He fell backwards, spreading his arms wide on the grassy slope as though to express the joy that came with honesty."- that all these years, THIS was, like, the issue!"

"Oh, God," Toris replied, running a hand tiredly through his matted hair. "I think I'd forgotten some things about you."

"And this," Feliks said, grinning devilishly. He rolled to his feet and leaned forward, sparkling eyes only inches from Toris's. The Lithuanian blushed deeply as Feliks entangled a hand in his matted locks. Feliks's grin grew, a strange sense of accomplishment filling him at his old friend's reaction. This was fun, it was - he would have to do more in the future to make Toris squirm. "Seriously needs my attention. Like, to the max."

"Hn…huh?" Toris blinked rapidly.

"Your hair, cutie. It's, like, a total Chernobyl right now."

Feliks backed away to inspect the state of said disaster, and Toris breathed a heavy sigh. Feliks's hair fluttered in the exhale, but his sharp remark was cut off by the Lithuanian. "Do you even know what Chernobyl was?"

"Like, I t-totally do! O-of course!"

Toris just rolled his eyes, a tiny grin playing around the corners of his mouth. It was good to be home.

* * *

Feliks grinned down at his (ex?) best friend. The Lithuanian was between his knees, head tilted back. His eyes closed in pleasure, unintelligible sighs issuing from his temptingly parted lips.

"You sure make a lot of noise, Liet," Feliks said, lips pursed to stifle his giggle.

"Well, you're good," Toris replied defensively. "Maybe better than the girls at the salon."

"You don't seriously think my hair is, like, _this_ cute by accident?"

Toris did not deign to answer. He let Feliks's hands work the "Extra-Strength Cleansing Formula!" shampoo through his matted locks, removing vodka and tension into the tub of lukewarm water. With his head submerged, his usually-silky chestnut floated around his head in a halo.

Feliks bit his lip to keep from laughing at Toris's ecstatic expression, letting his hands roam superfluously over the boy's head. "I suppose it, like, takes all kinds."

"Hn?"

"I mean, like, whatever gets you going…it's like totally cool."

"What on earth are you on about?"

"Never mind. I've, like, got to change the water now." Feliks stepped away, feeling affection bubble up within him for Toris. The Lithuanian was as transparent as a well-scrubbed window, every emotion immediately transferring to his face. His confusion, happiness…some function of the years they'd spent together had enabled Feliks to read his friend like an open, size 18-font book. With pictures.

Feliks gently lifted the Lithuanian's head from the tub of water, exchanging it for the softest towel he could find, and stepped into the bathroom to fill the carton with clean lukewarm water. _What else? _Of course. His hair dryer and his best, most non-painful brush. _Mustn't let Liet catch cold._

Feliks grinned despite himself as he entered his bedroom again, though he could not laugh outright or risk spilling two gallons of water all over his beautiful pale pink carpet. Now that Feliks was enlightened, Toris's attraction was just as plain as his pleasure and disappointment. How had he missed it before? The flushed face, dilated eyes, fast breathing…and the way Toris was always biting his own lip until it was raw, as though he were trying to conceal something. Keep something under wraps.

_Oh, Liet, my boy, _Feliks thought. _You know I, like, totally LOVE unwrapping presents._

"The sparklier the wrapping paper, the better."

"Wh-what?" Toris's brows shot upward in surprise, Feliks unaware of the intensity of his own stare.

"Never mind."

In a short time, Toris's hair was pronounced clean. _And hell if that wasn't disappointment on his face, _Feliks chuckled to himself, letting one finger stray down Toris's neck as he lifted the boy's head onto the towel. His grin only grew when Toris shivered visibly.

"Be right back." Feliks gathered his hair-cleaning items to return to the bathroom, absolutely certain this time that the puppy-dog expression on Toris's face was disappointment. He was just too cute!

Feliks paused in front of the bathroom mirror as he replaced his blow dryer. His eyes were wide, but his ever-perfect hair was still in place. Of course. What was he expecting? He'd only been fixing the boy's hair. This was ridiculous. This was nothing different from their childhood friendship – Feliks was still irreverently annoying, and he knew it, Toris still had that same trusting, dopey smile that had always made Feliks's heart melt…

_…has it always been like this?_

Maybe the only thing different here was circumstance. The only change from the innocent days of childhood friendship and sunshine…was that they were adolescents now, brimming with hormones and emotion. Maybe…the stakes were no higher now than they had been before. It was only that now both of them were aware. And Toris had awakened far earlier than he had…

Feliks jerked in surprise as the muffled sound of a rather high-pitched voice made its way through the wall to his ears. A mere ten feet away in his bedroom, Toris was talking to someone. Toris sounded very nervous.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind Feliks.

* * *

_17th Century_

_In a Commonwealth far far away…_

_"Like, show me your thing and junk!"_

_"Wh-what?" The 12-year-old Toris blushed madly._

_It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, the threat of the workweek hanging half-hidden behind tall stalks of rye and the seemingly-stationary sun suspended overhead. And Feliks was bored. Bad things happened when Feliks was bored._

_"I'm not going to! Stop being stupid, Feliks!" Toris pouted, flushing deeply._

_Feliks leaned closer to his friend, eyebrows raised teasingly. "Why not? I wanna see."_

_"No!"_

_"Polish rule."_

_"It's not going to happen!"_

_"Hmph. Fine. You're, like, totally useless." Feliks pouted for a moment, but then seemed to forget his mock anguish. Was it possible he did not want to hurt the Lithuanian's feelings? "Wanna roll down the hill with me?"_

_It was a favorite past-time of theirs, competing to see who could tumble recklessly down the rather steep rise faster, who could roll farther, if they could hold hands and roll all the way to the bottom together. Toris was always faster. Somehow, Feliks had maintained the childish belief that if he kept trying, one day Toris would roll all the way to the pond and fall in, though it was obviously too far away. Then Feliks would be the real winner. It would be hilarious, the look on his Liet's face._

_"No, I'm too tired. But you go ahead."_

_So he did. The Pole rolled all the way down the hill on his side, making his stumbling way back up, again and again until he was so dizzy he weaved as though he were drunk. As the vertigo faded, Feliks noticed the look on Toris's face…intrigued, but daydreaming at the same time. He looked checked out, but his eyes were still focused…on Feliks. He'd turned a funny color…perhaps he was getting a fever? Ought they to go inside and get a glass of water for him?_

_Instead, Feliks rolled down the hill several more times._

_"Feliks, fix your clothes," Toris finally commanded. Feliks looked down, surprised to find his shirt had ridden up in his hill-rolling gaiety. At least he was wearing breeches today instead of a lacey skirt, which was bound to be ruined by his childhood games._

_"It'll just get messed up again, in, like, two seconds."_

_"It's not right to go around like that, Feliks. You should fix it."_

_"Like, why are you freaking out? You're not my mother." Feliks fixed it anyway, and plopped down in the grass next to his friend. "'sides, there's only the two of us here."_

_"Yeah." Toris replied, looking away as Feliks's hands pulled him back to lie down next to his friend. Their knees and shoulders touched, as innocent as the autumn breeze. And, as quietly as the breeze, "There's only the two of us here."_

_Had Feliks heard him? It appeared not to matter, given the Pole's response. "Oh my gawd, lookit! That cloud totally looks like my pony!"_

_

* * *

_

**Coming Soon! Unfortunate assumptions, keeping certain things under wraps, and, this little thing we call "Tasting Poland". Um. It's a cooking website?**


	7. Chapter 7: The Soviet banner

**A/N: sorry, guys. Really sorry. I've been working on this...but I didn't really know where the chapter was going, soooo...I should do more planning. Oh well. Also, the chapter titles finally make sense and have a theme. I'll explain it in the last chapter...which is the next one, probably.**

**In this installment of Solidarnosc: a false accusation, an absolutely correct but unfortunate accusation, and some esterhazy goodness.**

**

* * *

**

"Every energy transfer or transformation increases the disorder (entrophy) of the universe."

-Campbell and Reece, 8th AP Edition

"Would Mr. Poleski like to fight-ski?"

-France, English dub.

There were sounds from the other room. Someone was here – someone who had no qualms about barging into the Pole's bedroom to apprehend his visitor…and to Feliks's frantically racing mind, that meant only one person. One insensitive, violent, vodka-drinking bastard.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind Feliks. He proclaimed at the top of his lungs, "HALT, INTRUDER!"

A wide-eyed Feliciano stared back at him.

Feliks blushed bright pink. Oooh, he did like pink! Like, soooo much. But not so much when it was on his face – that usually meant he had done something exceptionally stupid. "Erm…I mean…like, hi, Feliciano. I, uh, totally didn't know y-you were…like…here?"

"Oh, hello, Feliks! I guess you two made up, ve~?" The Italian grinned, but Feliks's embarrassment was unaltered, his blush still painfully prominent.

The Pole turned his head slightly, tossing a few annoying strands of golden hair out of his face, to beg Liet for help in this awkward situation. It was a good thing the Lithuanian was always there to rescue him…but Toris didn't look too rescue-y right now. He had apparently, from the state of the room, scrambled from where he'd been lying in hair-washing bliss to sit bolt-upright on the beanbag chair.

Feliciano continued talking, trying to break the awkward silence. "That's good, that's good. I mean, it's nice to be nice to people, right~? But not too nice, ve~? Or you get beat up. Ludwig is always yelling at me about…"

Feliks was puzzled. Toris hated the beanbag chair. But, of course, it was the only chair in the room. Hm. Still, why would he sit in it? How odd. And for some reason, Toris totally had a strategically placed pillow in his lap. And he had that keeping-shit-under-wraps expression again…ohhhhhhh…

Feliciano's gaze traveled between the rather flustered Toris and the rather embarrassed Feliks, and made a rather adept judgment call.

"I…I guess I'll leave, ve~? Caught you two at, um, a bad time?"

Toris and Feliks simultaneously leapt to their combined defense. Unfortunately, the cacophony seemed only to worsen their case, owing to Feliks's particular…er…way with words. The Italian's grin merely broadened.

"Oh, no, not at all…" The Lithuanian protested.

"…we were, like, just a little busy, but…"

"…not exactly busy, Feliciano. I mean…"

"…I was just, like, taking care of, like, a little problem Liet had…" Feliks added, causing his childhood friend to turn beet red and clutch his safety pillow tighter.

"…oh, no! He was just fixing my hair!"

"Yeah! Liet was totally enjoying it, too!"

"Feliks. Just. Shut. Up."

Feliks assumed a mock-hurt expression whilst the Lithuanian merely glared at him.

"I'm…just…going to go now…" Feliciano said quietly, customary grin still in place, edging towards the door.

"NO!" Both of the others shouted simultaneously.

"You can stay for dinner," Toris offered, even though it was not his house. At least, not officially.

"Like, totally," Feliks added.

Food-based hospitality shall always win in the end.

"You want chlodnik?" Toris asked, busily tying his hair back in an absolutely adorable manner. Objectively. Anyone would have thought it was adorable…not that Feliks was watching closely, or thinking (slightly proprietarily) that those silky locks were the product of his own love and care…course not.

"Um, ya. I, like, love that stuff." _But totes not because I missed you and it, like, reminds me of when we used to, like, hang out together when we were little tykes. Nope...not at all. _"I mean, c'mon! It's totally bright pink soup! Awesome much?"

"Ve~!" Feliciano said, always happy to receive good food.

**Super****Kucyk [7:13]:**

_Dude, I like totes need your help right now._

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:13]:**

_Dude, I like totes don't care._

**SuperKucyk [7:14]**

_It's about a boy._

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:15]**

_Well then. First step: accidental hand brush, preferably in a class you have a lot of projects in. Second step: ask him to work on the project with you! You can't do it until…6:00ish, so he'll have to stay for dinner. _

**SuperKucyk [7:17]**

_That's like kinda a lost cause…he's downstairs in the kitchen right now. Feliciano's like keeping him company._

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:18]**

_OMG. You know how flirty those Italians are._

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:18]**

_Third step: bring your camera…_

**SuperKycuk [7:18]**

_Jesus Christ, Elizaveta…_

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:19]**

_Oooh, Lord's name in vain? You're serious._

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:20]**

_Holy fricking esterházy. It's Liet, isn't it?_

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:22]**

_Feliks? Are you there?_

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:25]**

_Goddammit! I wanted to talk to you…_

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:27]**

_Okay. Since you're not here I can say whatever I want. First, you really suck at football. I'm not even kidding. Second, your outfit last week-end looked like something out of a Land's End catalogue, and not in a good way. Third, everybody and their dog knows how you_

**SomloiGaluska69 [7:29]**

_Never mind. I'll stay out of this. 3 you forever ~ Elizaveta_

Feliciano picked up a spoon and dipped it unhesitatingly into the (bright pink) soup, always a polite guest who never questioned the color of his host's food as long as it tasted good. "Better than wurst!"

"Really?" Toris smiled, blushing a little.

"Yes! The food at Ludwig's house is not very good! But I really don't mind that much – I mean, I'd cook if he'd let me use the kitchen…but he does love his cleanliness, ha."

Toris shot Feliks a bewildered look before returning in confusion to his soup. _Ummm, no. I'm not going to, like, explain hook-ups to you, Liet. You ask. _Feliks kicked his friend under the table to encourage and model assertive behavior, and the Lithuanian spluttered. Finally, he recovered with the "assistance" of Feliks pounding on his back, while Feliciano looked on in good-natured confusion.

Finally, with a glare from Feliks, Toris asked awkwardly, "So, um…you and Ludwig. You're, er, together now?"

"Sì! But please don't mention it to anyone. He wants to, um, keep it under wraps."

"Oh, of course! I wouldn't dream of making it public," Toris said, if only to mask his confusion. Wasn't Ludwig one of his little Feliks's main tormentors? Then what was Feliciano's partner doing, going all homophobic on the poor Pole? "But, uh, you two are happy?"

"Sì!" Feliciano said, at the same time as Feliks said…

"Like, totally! And I've got the pictures to prove it!"

He was met by two identically shocked stares.

* * *

"What the hell were you doing playing voyeur?" Toris near-shouted. They had returned to Feliks's bedroom to play a board game with Feliciano, until the latter had left, proclaiming a need to get back to his _pasticceria dolce_, Toris nudging the Pole in the ribs when he mimed gagging at the Italian's use of pet names. "That's really disrespectful."

"Well, excuuuuse me," Feliks replied, putting one hand on his stuck-out hip and noting Toris's swallow as he did so. The Pole turned to perch on the edge of his fluffy pink bed, crossing his legs as he did so. Intentionally. "I was just, like, helping out a cousin."

"Wow, Feliks. That's a really good reason -"

"Hey, okay, no need to go all sarcastic." The blond reached up a hand to pull Toris down next to him. Disregarding his friend's deep blush, Feliks began to work his hands over the Lithuanian's shoulders and neck, massaging out the knots. "You're, like, suuuper stressed out."

"Hmph."

"To be honest…when I took those pictures…I was really mad at Feliciano. Usually even _I_ am a little more respectful than that."

"Why…why were you mad?"

"Cavorting with the enemy, you know. Ludwig sure does like beating me up."

Ohhh. And that was enough to make his lovely little Liet painfully guilty, no doubt remembering all the torment Feliks had faced that was within his power to stop. Or attempt to stop, considering the breadth of Ivan's shoulders and the rumored AK-47 he kept under that billowing coat. Toris buried his face in his friend's shoulder, murmuring his never-ending apologies.

"Yeah?" Feliks's tone was uncharacteristically cold.

"Feliks…" Toris looked up, eyes brimming with tears, and clutched at the Pole's unresponding hands. "I…I…"

"You what?" Feliks asked, voice calcite-hard. It seemed the joyful reunion of the afternoon was over, brought to an end with the transient daylight. Toris was biting his own lip again, locked in the struggle once more: to tell or not to tell.

Toris cast a furtive glance around, as though there would repercussions if he let this sentence slip, and clutched tighter at the blond boy's arm and shoulder. His green eyes bore into the other's, as though to plead his innocence and swear him to secrecy. "He…he's not normal, Feliks. You haven't seen the worst of him, and I don't want you to. You understand?"

Feliks's eyes were wide with surprise, any trace of anger replaced by incredulity. "I…I don't…"

"Look. If he thinks you're…I don't know…stealing me away..." despite the gravity of his situation, the Lithuanian blushed at the thought. "…there'd be hell to pay. Even if it was me…"

Feliks tilted his head questioningly as his friend trailed off.

"Even if it was _me_, uh, coming on to _you_…that's not how he'd see it. And I…I wouldn't have him after you, not for the world I wouldn't."

"Oh God…he…he really hurt my little Liet…" Feliks looked down, kicking his feet as Toris's words sunk in against his will. Slowly, all the protectiveness of an overprotective brother began to build inside him, turning his stomach to acid and demanding a certain Russian's head on a silver platter. He leapt to his feet, much to Toris's dismay. "I'M GOING TO KILL THAT VODKA-SWILLING BASTARD!"

"Uh, Feliks, no…that was exactly the opposite of my point…"

"I mean it! Mothafucka going down!"

"Feliks…" Toris let out an exasperated sigh, tugging at his hopeless buddy's arm. "Don't go charging off like a madman. Just calm down and _sit _down, for Christ's sake!"

Feliks finally relented, plopping back onto the bed with a heavy sigh, leaning his head against Liet's shoulder in a show of honest solidarity. "Oh my God! Why the fuckski didn't you tell me he was, like, threatening you? I mean, what was all that angst for? I'd have been a hell of a lot happier if I'd known you didn't hate me."

"Uh, Feliks?" Toris replied, blushing in a way that may or may not have been related to Feliks's hand absentmindedly working out nonexistent tangles in his hair. "I was…um…dealing with some personal problems then, remember?"

"Nope."

"Nope what?"

"Nope, I don't remember. What are you talking about, again?"

Toris sighed. Ah, yes, Feliks's memory span. Nowhere near as long as those ivory legs that stretched miles from the fluttering hem of the Pole's skirt. Oh God. Why did _everything_ have to be about self-control? _I suppose I deserve it… _"I should leave…"

"What, is your mommy, like, waiting up for you?"

_Ah, yes, I'd forgotten what a jerkass he can be when he wants to. "_Ugh, Feliks, do you always have to be-"

"So it's, like, a yes? I'm soooo glad! It's been, like, forever since we've had a sleepover!"

Toris just sighed and rolled over onto his stomach so he would not have to face his friend, though he could feel the feather pressure of Feliks's leg against his back. The boy was sitting criss-cross applesauce next to him, hand idly tracing an enchanting pattern across the ridges of his back, ridges both natural and not...

Somehow, in Feliks's room, there was no need to let the tides of worry sweep him away, as they constantly did in his own. Toris did not think, did not clench his fists until they turned white, did not force his tears to remain inside. It was almost like they were children again, footloose and fancy-free.

But of course, this was no child's play-date.

It could have been minutes or hours until Toris came to. He must have been reading a magazine – yes, that was probably it – because at one point the flaxen-haired girl on the glossy pages had become Feliks, the Pole's eyes glittering in front of his, and the air between them crackled with potential energy. The magazine was tossed aside, and Toris felt something suspiciously like hope curl in his stomach.

Suddenly, Feliks was kissing him like there was no tomorrow, kneeling over his friend in a pose that was far too natural to be suggestive, though the positioning of the Pole's knee ought to have suggested otherwise. Toris should have resisted, should have been distraught at the waves rolling through his body in response to his oldest friend's touch…but by now, the Lithuanian's hyperactive mind was long gone.

It was a cotton-candy dream, it was, Feliks's adorable face pressed into the hollow at the base of his neck, lips pressed delicately against his collarbone…he'd never known anything could feel like this, but Toris couldn't stand that – he wanted to see the Pole's face. If he was an art connoisseur, Feliks was the Mona Lisa, for there was love etched in every line and hollow, every eyelash, every strand of sweaty hair.

Feliks's eyes widened in surprise as the Lithuanian tipped his chin upward, and Toris thought he could see himself standing in their dilated depths. A hand reached out, trembling, to caress the Baltic's cheek. It was only then they realized it was wet with tears.

Toris turned his head away, even as he pulled Feliks towards him into a hug that was more soulmate than bedfellow, and whispered, "Do you think you can forgive me?"

* * *

"Toris? Toris?" There was no reply. Hm. Perhaps little Toris was playing a game with him? That was good today, he was in a good mood today, games made him giggle today. It had been a good day. There would be games ahead – not the pretty games he played with Toris but hard games, navigating dangerous waters with his words and pipe and his favorite general – but today was hope.

He tried again. "Toris! You will want to know this, please come out! "

There was no response. Ivan's hand tightened on his pipe, the knuckles fading into white, white as snow.

* * *

**Argh! I've been watching the dub and it's freaking-holy-esterhazy hilarious, but what's with Poland's accent? He's like a gangster or something, "bro-ski". AND THEN I REALIZED. He's Polish ghetto. AHAHAHA...that's so offensive.**

**Also, the dub is a lot more...well...it brings in some things about WWII I'd rather not be in a comedy. Lithuania: "You'd rather be with Germany than Russia? YOU WOULD PREFER AUSCHWITZ?"**

**Wait a sec...why is he...is Lithuania...? Crap. That kills the first half of this fic.**


End file.
